


Blessed are the Peacekeepers

by glacialphoenix



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacialphoenix/pseuds/glacialphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Andraste was killed. That doesn't mean she failed." </p><p>Anders, Andraste, and the Chant of Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed are the Peacekeepers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salamander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/gifts).



i.

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  
-Transfigurations 1:2

When he was twelve they took him to the Circle. They did not know how to pronounce his name: the only one they needed was mage.

Later, they called him Anders.

They taught him how to call fire, command ice; how to shackle magic to his will. How to rend and tear and break bones, how to heal.

He liked that last. It was perhaps the sheer rarity of it all, and they were afraid of spirit healers besides. It was a good choice.

They let him choose his Fade spirit. The one he sought out was Freedom.

She accepted.

 

ii.

I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.

-Trials 1:10

He thinks solitary confinement is sanctioned slow-death: a year with nothing but his own mind? But he is not surprised; this is his sixth attempt, and in other Circles he might well be dead (or Tranquil.)

Mr. Wiggums likes being stroked and petted and talked to, and it is enough. Surana smuggles him a book, sometimes, or extra food - these little things keep him on the cusp of sanity.

On holy days there is the Chant: voices drift towards the high, barred window.

O holy Andraste, Maker’s beloved, she who escaped slavery, let us imprison mages in your name.

 

iii.

... them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world  
\- Threnodies 8:7

He can hear them calling: insistent drumbeat in his veins, whispers in his mind. It is the price he pays: once a Warden, always a Warden. But he does not lie to himself: had he not been a Warden, he would have been dead.

“You could have run, after,” Surana says. (He had not expected to see her again.) “I let you go.”

“I wanted to help.”

“I know,” she says, and puts a tabby kitten in his lap; it reaches out, bats at his nose. He laughs and calls it Ser Pounce-a-lot and thinks: maybe this might be bearable.

 

iv.

On blackened wings does deceit take flight.  
-Silence 3:6

They’re not supposed to be able to get you once you’re a Warden, but Surana is serving at Weisshaupt and the new Commander is a sanctimonious bastard who has some unresolved vendetta with cats and mages (except Surana, because he wouldn’t dare have something against Surana, she’s all whirling blades and magic and steel)

He’s not going back to the Circle. Never again: no sky no light no grass no privacy, Templars watching you all the time -

He can hear their voices. There’s nowhere left to run.

**This is not just!**

He looks down at the newly dead Templars.

 

v.  
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.  
\- Benedictions 4:10

Darktown is cramped and cold and the ceilings are too low, but needs must. He chokes down claustrophobia and the gut-wrenching fear of not being safe. They could tell on him at any time, earn themselves a reward -

A tug on his arm. “Ser Healer? My sister’s taken sick.”

The boy talking to him can’t be more than eight. “Where is she?” He kneels to speak to the boy. “Take me to her.”

Later, a frantic mother swears he’s sent by the Maker Himself; promises she’ll never breathe a word to the Templars, because no one else would care.

vi.

Let the blade pass through the flesh,   
Let my blood touch the ground,  
Let my cries touch their hearts.  
Let mine be the last sacrifice.  
Andraste 7:12 

“They’ll hunt you down,” she says, kneeling by him. “They’ll make you Tranquil, Anders.”

“I know.” He doesn’t look at her.

“Is it worth it?”

“Ten years - a hundred years from now - someone like me will love someone like you, and there will be no templars to tear them apart.” He inhales, a long, shaky breath. “Yes.”

Marian thinks of Anders’ voice; the off-tune strumming of a lute; the frantic, incessant scratch of pen on paper; his touch on her skin.They are not enough.

“I love you.”

“Marian, love -”

She slips the blade into his heart.


End file.
